A Wanted Man

Reacher didn’t answer that. He said, ‘And then he said the thing about trusting him. As if he was worthy of trust, somehow as of right. And then he shot at me and missed.’

‘Probably not either military or law enforcement, then. Lousy marksman.’

‘Maybe he was a great marksman.’

‘But he was in the room with you. It was what, about eight feet? How can he be a great marksman and miss from eight feet?’

‘Maybe he missed on purpose.’

Sorenson said nothing.

Reacher said, ‘I didn’t really think much of it at the time. I was just happy to be alive. But it was a hell of a high shot. It was a foot over my head. Maybe more. I remember saying it would have missed the motel keeper if he’d been standing on his own shoulders. It was exaggerated. It must have been about ten degrees above the horizontal. More than eleven-point-something, to be precise.’

‘Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.’

‘I’m serious. There’s more. He moved his position so he was blocking my view of the car.’

‘So?’

‘So he was blocking their view of me. As if he needed them to think he was doing one thing, when really he was doing another thing.’

‘He missed. That’s all. People do, sometimes.’

‘I think it was deliberate.’

‘He killed the guy in the pumping station, Reacher. He killed his own partner, apparently. He burned him to death. Why would he miss you deliberately? What makes you special?’

‘Only one way to find out,’ Reacher said.

‘Which is what?’

‘Tell me your phone number.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m going to need it.’

‘I left my phone in Delfuenso’s house, remember?’

‘You’re about to go get it back. And your car. And your reputation. You’re about to be a hero.’

FIFTY-FOUR

REACHER AND SORENSON swapped places in Goodman’s car and Sorenson drove back to town, sedately, never more than fifty miles an hour. They passed Sin City, and they passed the empty bean fields, and they passed the quarter-mile of old machinery, and more bean fields, and they turned right at the crossroads and drove a hundred yards and parked next to the old pumping station. Sorenson fiddled with Goodman’s phone and brought up the list of recent calls and voice mails. She found Dawson’s cell number. She dialled it and the guy answered almost instantly.

He said, ‘Sheriff Goodman?’

Sorenson said, ‘No, this is Sorenson out of Omaha. Long story with the sheriff’s phone. But I have the man you’re looking for. He’s in my custody. You can come pick him up any time you like.’

‘Where are you?’

‘At the old pumping station.’

‘We’ll be there in two minutes.’

Ninety seconds later Reacher opened his door and said, ‘OK, I’m ready for my close-up.’ He got out into the cold and crossed the sidewalk and faced the old pumping station’s concrete wall and put his fingertips on the rough surface. He shuffled his feet a yard apart and leaned forward and took his weight on his hands. Assume the position. Sorenson stood six feet behind him and pulled her gun and held it two-handed, trained on the centre of his back.

‘Looking good,’ she said.

‘Not feeling good,’ he said.

‘Best of luck,’ she said. ‘It’s been fun hanging out with you.’

‘We’re not done yet. I hope to see you again.’

They held their poses. The concrete was cold. Then Reacher heard tyres on the pavement. He heard a car come to a stop, and he heard doors open. He turned his head. The blue Crown Vic. Dawson and Mitchell. They came out fast, coats billowing, guns drawn, triumph on their faces. They talked with Sorenson briefly. Congratulations, appreciation, thanks. They said they would take over from there. Reacher turned his face back to the wall. He heard Sorenson walk away. He heard Goodman’s car start up. He heard it drive off down the street.

Then there was silence. Just breathing from behind him, and the sound of cold air moving across the land.

Then either Dawson or Mitchell said, ‘Turn around.’

Which Reacher was glad to do. His fingertips were numb and his shoulders were starting to hurt. He pushed off the wall and rocked upright and turned around. Both guys had their guns on him. They looked the same as they had through the diner window. Early forties, blue suits, white shirts, blue ties, still ragged, still tired, still flushed. Maybe a little more tired and a little more flushed than before, due to their recent exertions. Of which the worst part had probably been dealing with Puller. Fast driving was no big deal. Dealing with morons was. What was the phrase? Like teaching Hindu to a beagle.

The one who was a little taller and a little thinner than the other said, ‘My name is Dawson. My partner’s name is Mitchell. We’d like you to get in the car.’

Reacher said, ‘You understand I never met King or McQueen before last night?’

‘Yes, sir. You were hitching rides. We accept that completely. No hard feelings about the evasive manoeuvres in the stolen cop car just now, either. And Mr Lester is prepared to overlook his injuries.’

‘What injuries?’

Mitchell said, ‘You hurt his leg. His feelings too, probably.’

‘So we’re all good?’

‘Peachy.’

‘Then why are you arresting me?’

Dawson said, ‘We’re not arresting you. Not technically.’

‘You’re arresting me untechnically, then?’

‘Recent legislation gives us various powers. We’re authorized to use all of them.’

‘Without telling me what they are?’

‘You’re required to cooperate with us in matters of national security. And we’re required to think primarily of your own personal safety.’

‘Safety from what?’

‘You’re tangled up with things you don’t understand.’

‘So really you’re doing me a favour?’

Dawson said, ‘That’s exactly what we’re doing.’

Reacher got in their car. In the back. Loose, not handcuffed, not restrained in any way except for the seat belt they made him wear. They said it was Bureau policy to follow best practices for driver and passenger safety. He was pretty sure the rear doors wouldn’t open from the inside, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t planning on jumping out.

Mitchell drove, east to the crossroads and then south into the hinterland. Dawson sat quiet alongside him. Reacher watched out the window. He wanted to study the route they were taking. The county two-lane heading south was pretty much the same as it was heading north. There was no direct equivalent of Sin City, but otherwise the terrain was familiar. Fallow winter fields, some trees, a few old barns, an occasional grocery store, an untidy yard with used tractor tyres for sale. There was even a repeat of the sad quarter-mile of fourth-hand farm machinery, equally lame, equally rusted. There was clearly a glut on the pre-owned market.

‘Where are we going?’ Reacher asked, because he thought he should, sooner or later, strictly for the sake of